You spin me right round
by untilthedayyoufadeaway
Summary: "In a dark and empty alley of the streets of London, Sherlock Holmes was dying." When you think everything is over, sometimes you're wrong [VAMP!LOCK FANFICTION]


**Chapter one:**

In a dark and empty alley of the streets of London, Sherlock Holmes was dying.

The man had known for now one year he was condemned. All of this fell on him, like that, when he was not expecting, and he took a long time to spot it. To say everything, he didn't notice it at all. It was his older brother, Mycroft, who suspected something. He never told their parents.

Sherlock was getting tired easier and faster than before –as it got worse, he wasn't able to walk downstairs without having to make breaks- , his body sometimes unable to follow his desires. After two months or three, a violent fever obliged him to stay locked in his flat, wrapped in a heap of thick blankets on his bed. He did nothing else than complaining and laying down, sometimes getting up to go in the bathroom and vomit, if he had the time to reach the toilets… Even if it was clearly evident he was ill, Sherlock still denied it. He hated the doctors, he hated hospitals. And he hated how he was going slowly down in disease.

He didn't know what he had and didn't want to know it. That was unimportant, and it would have meant he was admitting his sickness, thing he'd never do. Everyone was pissing off by all of this, how stubborn Sherlock was. His brother tried many times to bring him to the hospital, but Sherlock always closed the door in front of him, telling him that "Stop with that, I am fine!" But a little voice in his head was saying he wasn't, and days after days, he began to believe it, lying miserably on the cold and tiled floor of the kitchen, without anything in his stomach. He stopped to hope he could keep something it more than an hour and that was why he stopped definitely to eat. After that, he didn't pick up at the phone. Now a lot of people thought he was already dead.

One day, Mycroft succeeded to force the door and enter in, finding his brother in a pathetic position. He was knelt on the ground, head in a bucket, and didn't raise his head even if he knew there was someone with him.

Mycroft stayed silent for a while, watching his poor brother emptying his stomach. It had never been the big love between these two, they never said "I love you" to each other, but the older had always been there for Sherlock, even when he repulsed him. Deeply in him, and maybe in both of them, it was hurting. But this, nobody was saying. They would never be able to acknowledge it.

After Sherlock stopped to make disgusting noises, Mycroft opened his mouth.

-Are you decided to live this any longer? He asked, crossing his arms on his chest, his dark umbrella he always carried with him was resting on his forearm as he stared at Sherlock with more insistence.

The young and curly man didn't answer right away, raising slowly his head from the bucket.

-I won't. I'm going to die anyway, he replied in a weak and trembling voice, his body shaking by rough spasms.

-Go to the hospital and it won't happen, his brother said, containing his anger and sadness.

-Leave me alone, he demanded softly.

-Sherlock…

-LEAVE ME ALONE!

And til this day, they never saw each other again. Mycroft went away, tried to come back to him but Sherlock was gone. He left his flat and everything behind him, deciding he would love to die in the streets rather than in this apartment he was tiring of. It was too full of old memories, more bad than good, and he didn't want to finish his life like this. So, for months and months, he stayed in the streets of London. Nobody seemed to see him. It was like he was inexistent. Retiring. Already dead.

He knew this day was his last. He wasn't able to move, he was thinner than he had ever been. He was skin and bone. He was unrecognizable. And he was dying.

He was mentally ready to go away. He hadn't anyone to see. No heartbreaking farewell. That was not for him. He was good like this. He accepted this miserable death, all alone. He had planned everything; in which position, in which alley, he had even calculated how much time people would take to find his corpse. Everything. Except that.

Someone came to him. Sherlock would have got up and screamed at this person to leave, but he hadn't the strength to.

-Go…

The brunet was unable to say more than this, and got scared when the guy approached.

" _No. Go! You idiot, let me die alone!"_

Sherlock couldn't see how the guy was looking, because of the darkness, but he couldn't hear his sharp and heavy breath. That was only when he stepped towards him that he distinguished the expression of horror, culpability and needy of something in particular. The legs of the blue haired guy were shaking, nearly as Sherlock's, and he was literally panting. The brunet didn't ask him if he was fine, because one, he totally didn't care and two, he doubted the answer could be "yes". So he still gazing at him, praying he would leave. But he didn't.

" _C'mon… Don't make that more difficult… I don't want witnesses…"_

The silence was deep and barely bearable. There was tension, something in the air like they were both having a 'mental fight' until the small guy (Sherlock deduced he couldn't be more than thirty) opened his mouth.

-Three days… And there's nothing… I cannot feed myself…, he said weakly, words about to break and die in his tightened throat.

Sherlock didn't say anything. Probably a homeless teenager who was trying to let him guess he wanted some food from him.

" _But how stupid is he?! Can't he see I'm bloody dying, for God's Sakes?!"_

-I'm sorry…

The guy covered his mouth with his wrist, like he was holding something on. Then, he exploded.

-I CAN'T! I FUCKING CAN'T! GOD, YOU'RE A BASTARD! He shouted, staring up at the dark blue sky.

Sherlock frowned but before he could do anything, like trying to get up or succeeding to say something, the guy ran to him, pinned him on the ground and bit his neck. Sherlock gasped and screamed, a violent pain overwhelmed him. He tried to push the man away but he hadn't enough strength to.

-H-He-AAAH!

His eyes rolled, his view get blurry and he was shaking with rough spasms, desperately shouting in pain. He felt like he was slowly going to faint as his blood was leaving him. So that was like this, to feel himself going away…After a few minutes in the course of which the blue haired guy sucked the red liquid up, he pulled away suddenly, blood flowing down his chin. He quickly wiped it away with his sleeve, his eyes widened.

-Oh my God… Oh my God… What have I done? He murmured, stepping back before he ran away, tripping a few times.

Sherlock was laid on the ground, his head's spinning, his ears buzzing… His heart was slowly stopping, the beats of it irregular… He closed his eyes. It was finished… His thoughts were turned to anyone in particular, because he had nothing. His brother, he had already forgotten him. His parents…well he hadn't heard about them for a quite long time… The people who worked in Scotland Yard, people he helped to solve cases… How funny, he never loved them. Friends maybe? He didn't have one. He was alone. He had nobody. So that's why he was ready to die…

When he thought everything was finished, his heart finally raced in his chest, so fast it was hurting him. The wound the guy left burned him and he screamed again. He was on fire. That was the word. He grabbed his head in his both hands and curled up into a small ball, his lips parted but soon none sound came out of it.

" _What… What the fuck is going on?"_

Inside of his mouth, he felt his canines slowly becoming longer, cutting softly his pale tongue.

-A-Ouch… H-Help..

He never felt so much pain before, even during those long months spent in his flat, when this unknown and horrible disease was getting him down. It was worse, so much worse… Like his head was crackling, breaking into a million pieces. He groaned loudly, his eyes filling with ardent tears when they fell down on his cheeks. What was happening? His clever and logical mind couldn't tell because this wasn't logical at all… He let out a quiet whimper as his coasts broke down.

-Sir?

Sherlock froze. Somebody was there. A sweet, reassuring voice.

-H-H…

-What's going on?!

" _If I only knew…"_

The stranger came to him, kneeling down and turning slowly the brunet on the side, to be able to watch him. Sherlock could finally see his face. He was blond haired, his gaze seemed strong but also, it had weaknesses. His eyes were dark blue and when they met each other, Sherlock relaxed a little. He was too tired and had too much pain to begin to make deductions, so he kept staring at the man, staying silent and letting him examine quickly his body.

-Alright, the man said after a while, don't worry. Everything will be alright. I'm a doctor. I'm going to drive you to the hospital. Can you hear me?

Sherlock moved his head slowly as a nod, and the last thing he remembered was the short man lifting up from the ground and carrying him along the cold and dark streets.


End file.
